


fist full of pleasure (handful of fun)

by pensee, vivisextion (pensee)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Again sort of, Bathroom stuff is not totally explicit, Bearded bear Will, Big Cock, Double Anal Penetration, Enemas, Fisting, Flushing in preparation for deep anal penetration, Hannibal has small hands and a big cock, He's coping well, I think that's it - Freeform, It is a control fetish thing, It's opposite for Will, Laxatives, M/M, Or poorly depending on how you look at it, Picture regular Hannibal but shrunk, Please forgive the title, Pretty massive size difference, See notes for additional explanations, Sort Of, Twink Hannibal, Will Knows, d/s dynamics, in second chapter, mentioned - Freeform, small cock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-24 20:14:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20913452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pensee/pseuds/pensee, https://archiveofourown.org/users/pensee/pseuds/vivisextion
Summary: Don’t settle for less, his Daddy had always told him. You’ll just wind up with your dick in your hand wondering why you’re so Goddamned disappointed.And, whatever disagreements he and his father ever had, he still couldn’t help but think of his Daddy’s godawful phrasing the moment he laid eyes on Hannibal Lecter, this tiny, startling little thing bludgeoning a man about twice his size with a statue of Beethoven, slim fingers stained with blood that did not deter his grip one bit. The muscles in his arms were tensed and defined beneath his shirt as Will marveled at the fact that he had the fisherman’s equivalent of a three-hundred-pound tuna wriggling at the end of his hook while the smaller man hardly broke a sweat trying to control his catch, dragging the sluggishly crawling man back to him with a firm tug at his ankle.How in the ever-living fuck, Will had thought, gun in hand and the words freeze, FBI on his lips, though Hannibal had merely snarled at his victim and smiled, unconcerned, at Will, teeth bloody red and terrifying.





	fist full of pleasure (handful of fun)

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so although the size difference is not overbearingly described within, my background for this story is that Hannibal is about 5’ 6” (1.68 m), and Will is about 6’5” (1.96m), so they’re pretty different in size. Hannibal is even leaner than he is in canon, and Will’s bulkier than he is in canon, so there’s also a significant weight difference. 
> 
> In terms of cock size, I have certain numbers in my head, but you can fill in the blanks however you choose. Hannibal’s cock size may be exaggerated in Will’s head due to his own personal insecurities that encompass thoughts about his own cock size (Hannibal’s body is smaller, so overall, his penis appears larger), but realistically, they likely have what could best-guess be called average-sized junk (if such a “standardized scale” for such a thing exists, which is unlikely). 
> 
> If anyone likes discussions of sexual selection, penis size, and Likert Scales, here’s something to read: https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3637716/ 
> 
> As a personal note: genitalia of all shapes and sizes are beautiful. Period. This is just something fun and kinky for me to distract myself with. 
> 
> Btw, there is also ELIMINATION (not the main focus) and stuff that has to do with bathroom habits in chapter 2 where Hannibal fists Will. The fisting, not the bathroom stuff, is the main focus, but I do not want anyone to get squicked. 
> 
> PSA concluded, please enjoy safely.

Will was the absolute last person in the world that would ever believe in love at first sight, but it had been a long, dry decade, and that proverbial biological clock (meaningless as it was to someone who preferred giving and receiving dick, thank you very much) nonetheless tugged at him relentlessly, silently berating him for every night spent alone with the company of cheap bottle of whiskey and the most economical sex toys money could buy.

His most recent dates—arranged entirely online, over an app that he had to delete from his phone during the subsequent fiascos that followed—had started out fine. The first was almost sweet, although he’d balked at how quickly everything had gone, the college kid who’d gone from zero-and-sending-wink-emojis-at-him to I’d-like-to-hop-on-your-dick-Daddy practically giving him whiplash as he tossed the condom away, kissed Will’s bearded cheek, and left, the screen door banging without so much as a “I’ll text you later” in return. The whole arrangement had been quick, and physically satisfying, but it left an emptiness inside of him that he didn’t want to contemplate, so instead, he drowned his sorrows in another bottle of his favorite bourbon.

The second, and more memorable of the two, was less easily categorized, though thinking of it now left a bad taste in his mouth at how he’d treated an otherwise perfectly acceptable, perfectly attractive prospect.

After a few weeks of exchanging messages over the dating app, Will had shown up to a trendy gastropub in the city, been nearly swept off his feet as his date—an older divorcee with some money in the bank—ordered drinks for both of them, made genuinely pleasant small talk, and had very compassionately and very pointedly not asked why Will avoided direct eye contact or why he sat with his shoulders hunched so severely, terrified of accidentally shifting the wrong way and sending a passing waiter sprawling.

Comparatively broad and big enough—but not as big as Will, of course—the divorcee had been exceptionally sweet, the most intimate thing he did at dinner stroke his thumb along the back of Will’s hand (Will’s heart skipping at how nice their large paws looked together, spread over the tablecloth). There was no heated fumbling against Will’s car when the man walked Will back to his stall, but there had been a second date, and a third, and when Will had whispered his confession on that third date, that he wanted to be rode hard and put away wet, the sweet divorcee had enthusiastically obliged.

Spread Will across his grown up, proper king-sized bed (not like the foldout Will still religiously clung to in his own home) and fucked him till the box spring squealed dangerously, till Will was drooling and facedown in the mountains of pillows at the headboard.

He’d called Will beautiful, and asked if he could see him again.

Will, dreading giving him an answer and privately less-than-excited at the prospect of just continuing this dinner date, sex, dinner date sex routine for the rest of his life, had done the terrible thing and lost the guy’s number, deleted the dating app that was their easiest way of communicating, and gone back to his dogs and his solitude wondering why he constantly sought to shoot himself in the foot whenever he had a good thing going.

_Because you’ve already seen the mild-mannered divorcee show, and it’s not the right programming for you_, he’d told himself. Then, less sure: _So, what do you really want, then_?

There was no such thing as an _instant connection_, no such thing as Knowing or love at first sight, and Will had subscribed to that notion his entire life, though he’d stupidly expected some larger spark of interest between himself and the people he’d tried to give himself to.

But there was always that road block; some valuable and intrinsic component missing from these men—with their pretty smiles and their easygoing natures and their skilled mouths and cocks—that he couldn’t let go of.

_Don’t settle for less_, his Daddy had always told him. _You’ll just wind up with your dick in your hand wondering why you’re so Goddamned disappointed. _

And, whatever disagreements he and his father ever had, he still couldn’t help but think of his Daddy’s godawful phrasing the moment he laid eyes on Hannibal Lecter, this tiny, startling little thing bludgeoning a man about twice his size with a statue of Beethoven, slim fingers stained with blood that did not deter his grip one bit. The muscles in his arms were tensed and defined beneath his shirt as Will marveled at the fact that he had the fisherman’s equivalent of a three-hundred-pound tuna wriggling at the end of his hook while the smaller man hardly broke a sweat trying to control his catch, dragging the sluggishly crawling man back to him with a firm tug at his ankle.

_How in the ever-living fuck_, Will had thought, gun in hand and the words _freeze, FBI_ on his lips, though Hannibal had merely snarled at his victim and smiled, unconcerned, at Will, teeth bloody red and terrifying.

_Well_, Will had thought, ten minutes later and surrounded by Jack, Forensics, and ERT combing over the body for any traces of the mysteriously disappeared Ripper, Will sitting there with a cold gun and a full clip, going over and over in his mind, _I got caught with my dick in my hand with that one, but I’m sure as hell not disappointed_.

The fact that the Ripper—well, the Ripper suspect that hadn’t even been on the FBI’s radar until Will had walked in on him beating the suspected Baltimore Symphony killer to death in a music shop—eventually turns out to be his co-worker is the thing that really sends Will over the edge. That, and the fact that Hannibal aggressively pursues him, to the point where Will forces himself to say yes, just to get the other man to stop asking for another date.

“I should turn you in right now, I’m going to walk in there, and tell Jack—,” he starts, when Hannibal begins his usual spiel about this restaurant or that night market, how much he has to show Will, how many pleasurable things in life he’s missing, hiding behind _the mantle of social recluse with terrible personal hygiene_, whatever that means.

“Why would you do that?” Hannibal asks, and Will’s usual trick of looking down at his shoes doesn’t work, because Hannibal’s short enough that this action puts him almost directly in Will’s averted eyeline.

God, he hadn’t noticed that most of the people he worked with were so tall in comparison.

“Who would believe me, you mean,” Will snorts, burying his face in his hands.

Peeking through the cracks of his fingers, he sees Hannibal lick his lips, gaze firmly fixed on him, and then he remembers that social cues like embarrassment probably mean even less to a man like Hannibal Lecter than they mean to Will himself.

_You _pretend_ they don’t mean anything to you_, Will tells himself, shame heating his cheeks as Hannibal accidentally (not accidentally, he’s just a freak with a complex) plants his hand too low and attempts to guide Will out into the hall with his palm pressing insistently at Will’s tailbone.

“Okay, can you not—Hands off, please,” Will hisses under his breath, turning pinker as a few visiting DEA agents pass them and start to giggle.

Hannibal fucking _strokes_ the heel of his hand against Will’s ass before he pulls back, and Will has a very uncomfortable few seconds thinking of how small that hand feels on his cheek, _how easily it would just slip into him if he relaxed enou_—.

“My apologies,” Hannibal says, the barest tug of a smile on his clean-shaven cheek. Absentmindedly tracking the differences between them, Will scratches at his unruly beard to give himself something to do that’s not be stared at until he spontaneously combusts from the attention of someone who really has no right to be intimidating as he is, in those stupid sweater-sport jacket combos that make Will think of luxury magazine ads and polished oxfords and not at all about leather belts or what they can do to him in his free time.

_You’re the one doing this to yourself_, he thinks, sighing and finally saying, to break the silence, “So, dinner then?”

_This could turn out to be the middle-aged divorcee show again, you can always change the channel if it’s not what you want to watch_.

Hannibal’s smirk—Jesus, it makes a shiver go up Will’s spine—in return promises that this is going to be anything but whatever Will’s ever experienced before.

“Dinner. I’ll choose,” he says, and slips a card into Will’s hand, his business contact information printed in black, with a hand-scrawled (if the ridiculously neat copperplate could be called that) cell phone number written on the back.

He doesn’t give Will a date or time or anything else, and reality doesn’t work like that, but Will chokes on whatever protests he has, the words _I’ll choose_ echoing in his head on repeat, that low, sibilant accent trickling over every nook and cranny of every fort he’s ever built to keep things out and quickly and devastatingly knocking them all astray.

_That’s new_, Will swallows to himself, standing there with a phone number, his confusion, and just a little bit of fear sweat cooling uncomfortably on the nape of his neck.

It’s natural for people to compare things to past experiences, the pneumonic filing systems they’ve built of important memories in their minds serving as a foundation for constructing new paths for new information.

_But this doesn’t feel like much of a comparison_, Will thinks, Hannibal at the restaurant much earlier than Will’s favorite divorcee had been, not even giving Will the option to select a drink he liked and be paid for. Instead, Hannibal places a glass of something strong enough to make his eyes water when he brings it to his lips to take a nervous, grounding sip—identical to Hannibal’s own, he notices, and with some admiration, sheepishly watching the other man’s tanned throat work as he downs the drink.

“I don’t know what you’re hoping to accomplish by doing this,” he starts, because if he guides the conversation, that will hopefully give him control over whatever this is.

_You can’t possibly have control. You’re dining with a serial killer who would kill anyone in this room on a whim, probably faster than you would ever be able to react, and instead of running for the hills, you’re sitting across from him and trying to make sure you don’t trip over your own tongue?! _

“I’m trying to make you comfortable, Will,” Hannibal says, and Will can easily see both the mirth and the lie gleaming in his oddly colored eyes.

“Comfortable with the luxury, you mean. So, this is how you live your life. Expensive food and wine and dimly-lit restaurants. People at your beck and call. I don’t think I would ever get used to this, so don’t bother trying to condition me. I did this as a favor to a colleague, so he would stop harassing me in front of our boss.”

He says the words with a straight face, but he can tell Hannibal is unconvinced.

_That makes two of us, then_.

“Would you have preferred a private setting? One in which I would be given many more opportunities to ‘harass’ you.”

Will rears up to his full height, stretching the poorly laundered, shrunken suit jacket he’d pulled out of the back of his closet. Hannibal’s brow lifts, but the faint show of teeth at Will’s display is more amused than threatening.

“I want to have a normal dinner. I want you to pay the bill. And I want you to satisfy whatever…curiosity you have about me so that we can move on, and keep things professional,” Will defends, and Hannibal’s eyes are practically wild with silent laughter now.

“You’ve said that once before, yet here we sit,” Hannibal says, and Will scoffs in disgust, thumbing through his menu so he can look at something that’s not Hannibal’s smirking face. Everything is in another language that might be Italian or French, but Will’s head is swimming, and he’s too frustrated to make out any of the letters.

The worst part is, he doesn’t think Hannibal is just doing this to be facetious, although there is a certain benefit to winding him up, Will snorts to himself. He’s baiting Will to do something, or to admit something, and if only all his powers of reasoning could help him figure out exactly what that was—it wasn’t only sex; people like Hannibal did not go through this much effort for gratification they could get from anyone—then he could redirect Hannibal to go off chasing something more worthy of his time.

_Well, no matter what the ultimate outcome, you’ve leashed the Ripper for now_, he considers, thoughts straying unhelpfully into the pragmatism of indefinitely distracting the person inexplicably responsible for so much terror from their usual bloody pastime.

_Think of all the lives you’re saving, by literally putting your ass on the line_.

“Something funny, Will?” Hannibal asks, eyes crinkling as if he already knows what Will’s been hashing out in his head, and all traces of Will’s humor vanish at the reminder he’s being watched.

“No, I just—Is it really necessary for everything to be in…?”

“Italian,” Hannibal provides. “It’s a family restaurant; the family decides how things are presented.”

“Oh, _excuse me_,” Will sighs, grateful for the interruption as their server steps up to the table, only for a moment, though, before he realizes that he’s spent zero time actually deciding what he wants to eat. Gnawing on the inside of his cheek, he opens his mouth to bite the bullet and just ask the server what she recommends like this is a Chili’s and he can’t decide between the specials. But Hannibal swoops in not a fraction of a second later, spouting off some vaguely accented but clearly very competent Italian as the server nods politely, asks for a few clarifications, and disappears to put in their order without even bothering to write any of it down, though Will chokes at exactly how long the conversation went on.

Mouth dry, he asks, “W-what, um, what did you even order for me? Or were you going to eat that all yourself?”

“I want to expand your palette. Although there are many traditionally Italian dishes that utilize duck, the executive chef here—our server’s grandfather—also studied the culinary arts in Asia for many years. You will be having duck breast, seared in fat, served with a sweet plum sauce and sautéed choy sum. And I will permit a perhaps more familiar indulgence for dessert. They have fresh lemon-raspberry tartufo, as many as you would like.”

Will scoffs, to give himself an excuse to make himself small, running a concealing hand through his slightly overgrown curls as he burns hot at the ease with which Hannibal is tossing around concepts like _permission_, granting himself the polite illusion of being the indulgent date. _As many as I like? As many as _you_ like, you control freak._

“I’ve had Chinese food before. Good Chinese food,” he settles on, taking a long sip of water to have something to do that isn’t spontaneously combust or sweat anymore in these restricting, formal clothes while his coworker studies him like a lobotomized rat set loose in a maze, wondering where he’ll trip up next.

“I’m sure you have,” Hannibal allows, patronizing as all hell, and Will grumbles wordlessly to himself and doesn’t push the matter.

In conversation—and this is the sick, thrilling part, perhaps even physically, with the eerie reflexes and unnatural strength that Will has only caught a glimpse of firsthand—no matter which way he pushes, he suspects Hannibal will win. This does not absolve him of a desire to try, but it leaves him with a better appreciation of when to concede the battle, understanding the unnerving feeling that he’s on the precipice of a war that’s only just begun.

Still, there are petty revenges to be taken advantage of and had, as halfway through dessert, Will orders another plate of tartufo, then another, testing Hannibal’s resolve on the _as many as you want_ issue.

The desserts are small, and the dinner portion not excessively large—delicious as it was—and Will is not entirely full, even as he gobbles down his fifth bit of ice cream.

Hannibal, hand clenched around his fork, adopts a pinched expression that is the most openly irritated Will has ever seen him.

“Will,” he says, in a low voice that nearly gets lost in the ambient chatter of the room. “Stop eating.”

Will’s dropped his own fork before he even knows what he’s doing, and it clatters dully against the gleaming edge of his plate.

“What did you just say to me,” he hisses back, though it’s hard to speak around the sudden flood of saliva in his mouth.

“I told you to stop eating. I made a teasing comment earlier, you took it at face value, and now you are being gluttonous. I told you to stop eating, and you will listen to me.”

Will thinks it shouldn’t make any sense. Himself, about as broad as a house and ham-fisted like the best of them, glaring across the table and struggling with himself to obey another man (albeit an older one) who, upon a passing glance, appears small enough to be his child. But Hannibal is still smiling infuriatingly, and Will is struggling nonetheless, mouth working as he chews on his lower lip and finally makes his decision, pointedly leaving his fork, currently smearing raspberry compote onto the white tablecloth, exactly where it has fallen.

“Thank you, Will,” Hannibal says, and Will bites out an instinctive, “You’re welcome.”

His decision sits heavy in his stomach, and although he really is not entirely full, he feels a wholeness there that he has not felt in a very long time.

_Maybe never_, he swallows nervously to himself, watching Hannibal’s veiny hands continue to work his utensils over the remains of his dessert—the same way he would work a scalpel over whatever bodies he was currently disposing of, Will was sure—and avoids meeting Hannibal’s eyes.

_Anything_, he thinks, _would be safer than that_.

And Hannibal, unheard by Will, hums low and satisfied before he brings the next bite of dessert to his slightly upturned lips.


End file.
